Unholy Devotion
by Femme Bono
Summary: Crowley is plagued with fallout after Dean Winchester rises as a knight of Hell. Again, Crowley finds himself vying for the throne, but who will help him fight? Crowley/OC. Liable to go extremely AU since no one knows what is in store for season 10. Should be (mostly) canon-compliant. Rated for future chapters. ;)
1. Chapter 1

Ed. note: Grainne is pronounced _grown-ya_.

Cht. 1

Crowley sat in a leather wing-backed chair, staring idly into the fire. His latest minion screw-up turned slowly on a spit over it, his screams quieted now that his vocal cords had burned beyond function. Crowley had once again found his kingdom in turmoil over who rightly controlled the helm of Hell. He sipped his scotch with a sigh and pondered who of all the dim prospects he could trust to help him rein in — so to speak— the hordes of the damned.

It was mere weeks since Dean Winchester had Risen, yet already the newly awakened demon knight had shown signs of not only wanting to howl at the moon, but to chase it and own it. There was already a following, and every day it seemed more and more of his unholy flock defected to the Marked One.

A subtle sound to his left broke him from his reverie and Crowley half turned his head toward the sound. "Sir, it is time for your massage therapy session. Would you like me to dispose of the traitor?" questioned the demon who approached.

"No, take him down and get him trussed up for further questioning. He knows Squirrel 's whereabouts, even if he is proving difficult yet."

"Of course, sir," she replied, and then started to exit as quickly and quietly as she had come.

If there was one stalwart supporter of his regime, it was Grainne. The perfect servant, she never complained and was always there in the background waiting for orders. Crowley rose, setting his scotch on an end table and buttoned his suit jacket. Juliet the hellhound rose from his feet and shuffled off to sniff at the softly smoldering demon on the hearth.

"Grainne," Crowley called.

"Yes, my lord?" she stopped and turned in the doorway.

"You may do the honors."

"Of course, sir," she replied, then closed the door behind her on the way out.

He knew she would go down the long stone hall to the sporting room—for it was sport to demons, torture was—and there she would prep the area as he had shown her, before ordering the prisoner to be brought in for questioning. He knew she would take her time with the delicate process of extracting the information. And he knew this because he had taught her everything. Secure in his mind that at least one of his flock had some measure of competence, Crowley made his way to his boudoir where the voluptuous Adrina waited.

The girl waited by the massage table, long brown locks delicately tousled, a thick sweep of it brushing over smoky eyes of melted chocolate. Her robe was loosely belted, showing an ample display of cleavage. He allowed her to unbutton and slide the jacket from his shoulders before he loosened his tie and stepped out of his shoes.

"Darling," he said, "Daddy is tense today. Work the shoulders, pet."

"Of course," she purred as she helped him divest his clothes. Crowley climbed up on the table as she held the sheet back for him, then he sighed heavily as she draped the sheet over the small of his back and began to stroke and knead at the tense spots.

"Ohhhh yes," he hissed. "That's the spot." Adrina began asking him about his day, murmuring comforting words as he let his cares slip loosely from his tongue. And as she played her hands over the demon king's body, she payed even more rapt attention to what he said.


	2. Chapter 2

Cht 2

As he was wont to do, Sam Winchester dove into research, hunting for some small mention in the Men of Letters texts that may help save Dean. Weeks prior, Dean had risen from his bed and without speaking, had shouldered his way past a speechless Sam in the doorway, with Crowley sitting aghast nearby, and promptly disappeared. There was almost immediately a swath of dead across the middle states—people decapitated by a mysterious hitchhiker. The authorities at first thought it was an animal attack due to the ridges and tears on the victim's wounds, but soon realized that it was done by a strange blade with teeth, thanks to surveillance videos.

Sam had tracked all of this once he finally emerged from a three-day drunk where he cleared the bunker of all its booze. Never had he felt so unmoored before he stood numbly disbelieving in that doorway, clutching the frame as Crowley silently mused over the development of a demon Dean who did not, as it turned out, want to play. Crowley had left shortly thereafter, and between that afternoon where Sam sat helpless on the edge of Dean's bed and the marathon binge session that followed, Sam had lost valuable time that he could have been using to get his very inhuman brother back. Questions surfaced in his mind like swirls of silt from the murky depths of worry and grief. How could he pinpoint Dean's location, and if he could, could Dean be reasoned with? What of Crowley? He had been shunned just as surely as Sam. Could he help in any way? Would he, even if he could? And then if he could find Dean, whether reasoning with him was possible or not, how would he change him back?

Sam rubbed a hand over his face and groaned as he tossed one book aside and picked up another.

* * *

Castiel, meanwhile, lurched through an alleyway. The diminishing grace he had inside him left him weak and disoriented. He knew there was a hunter or hunters nearby who could possibly get him back to Sam and Dean, but he could not teleport and his angel radio was getting sketchier by the day. He felt hollowed out inside and feverish at the same time. He stumbled over a trash can, tipping its contents across the alley and landing roughly to the side of it. He looked up slowly at a pair of scuffed boots that led upwards to a skylark blue fringe suit.

"Wow, Cas, ole buddy…you're not lookin so good fella," said a familiar young man who crouched down beside him.

"Garth," sighed Castiel, "you've got to help me."

* * *

Grainne emerged from the sporting room sweaty and drained, but jubilant. She treaded lightly down the hall glowing with the news she had extracted and the surety that this would garner a rare compliment from His Highness. Normally she would have showered and changed before meeting her King—he detested anything untidy—but this occasion she felt required promptness. She neared his quarters and eased the door open, knowing that she was expected to be as unobtrusive as possible. The King also detested slovenliness and cacophony, unless it was the tortured screams of his enemies. As Grainne slid silently through the doorway, she spotted Adrina and curled her lip in a silent snarl. The latest whore in a string of trollops, this one was angled away from the door murmuring over a chalice of blood.

"Yes, well an ambitious salesman against a Knight of Hell didn't go so well last time, did it," Adrina said to whoever was listening. "But last time he had Winchesters in his corner and now there's a Winchester in the other corner. This _King_ is scared—and he wants to offer up a deal to the Knight. Gambian, if we can set up a 'meeting' with the two, the Knight can take him out easily."

When she paused to listen, Grainne jabbed a blade between her ribs, effectively cutting off any screams and collapsing the traitor's lung. When it came to his massages, the King was all too likely to relax and say something he should not trust anyone with—especially a whore. Between Lola and Meg, he really should have learned.

"Well done," he said from the opposite doorway, already impeccably dressed in a bespoke suit. "I appreciate you not killing the traitor of course."

Grainne jolted at his words, not realizing he had been there for at least part of the time.

"Sir, I—"

"Get this one trussed up as well, then heal her so I can break her again. I shall start the interrogation myself, but stand by."

"Yes sir, of course." With that, she started for the door before remember her original purpose. "Sir, about the other prisoner."

Crowley stopped, half-turned in the doorway. "Yes, how did that go?"

"He's holed up somewhere in Livonia, Michigan. A place called Devil's Path."

"Sir—you're not…actually trying to meet him," she stammered, not wanting to criticize her king.

"No," he replied, sizing her up. "That was a ruse for her to feed them misinformation. I have other plans."

Grainne nodded, returning his steady gaze for a moment until she could no longer maintain it. Then she shifted uncomfortably, missing the way a corner of his mouth quirked up.

"Get her ready," he said. "We'll start the interrogation in ten."

"Yes of course," she said softly, still not meeting his eye, and stepped quietly out the door.

_There we are_, he thought, _one respectably intelligent yet dutiful lackey. Not sycophantic and yet eager to please. Perfect_. He heard her pause just outside the door, but thought nothing of it as he kicked Adrina over on her back and studied her face.

"See what your disloyalty gets you, whore," he said gravely. "This could take years."

Grainne, just on the other side of the door, leaned against the frame to steady herself. The look that passed between them had sent the butterflies shimmying through her belly, and she took a moment in the empty hallway to pull herself back together. Grainne took a deep breath and mentally ticked off every spell item she needed to heal the traitorous whore. _I'm going to really enjoy inflicting damage on that two-faced trick_, she thought. Her normally brown eyes flicked to black at the thought of shedding more of Adrina's blood. Buoyed by the thought of taking out her vengeance on the shifty bitch, Grainne straightened and made her way down the hall to a storeroom, ready to do some damage.


	3. Chapter 3

Cht 3

Hours later Grainne stood opposite Crowley over Adrina's supine form as the whore weeped openly. Grainne and her King, grim and bloody, took their time cleaning each implement as they tucked it away for the time being. Their session had been successful; they were two for two today and as Crowley untied his apron to reveal his shirt and trousers still impeccably clean beneath, Grainne ventured a question.

"Sir," she said slowly, not wanting to show her eagerness for his answer. "Who will you be sending to round up Gambian?"

Crowley did not stop wiping the blade in his hand, nor did he look up. "The specifics of that we will discuss elsewhere and not in front of the whore traitor."

"Understood."

Moments later when they were alone in the hall, having left the girl lashed to the gurney within the room, Crowley told Grainne to meet him in the board room and to bring Damian and Roland with her. She hurried off to find the two, the plush oxblood carpeting muffling her steps. Crowley stood, watching her leave and marveling at how he had never noticed her before. She was not only competent and intelligent, but adept with it and—dare he admit it, even to himself—quite lovely. He made a mental note to learn her story, before trusting her fully.

"Blanchard," he clipped.

"Yes, my Lord," replied an aged man who appeared beside him. Blanchard, his valet, was the only one allowed to transport himself within the hallowed halls, merely for the purpose of answering the Master's whims. "Find out what you can about Grainne. I want to know what her deal was—why she condemned herself and how long she has been 'below stairs', as it were."

"Of course, my Lord." With that, Blanchard was gone.

Crowley had chosen well for the errand, Grainne thought. Damian was strong and wiry, and his soul was black as pitch. He was one of the oldest demons around, and as such he had a deep and abiding hatred for hunters—especially the Winchesters. He was one who would be squarely in Crowley's corner. The one worry there of course, Grainne mused, was that Damian could well try to take over the throne himself at some point. He probably could get quite a following if his ambitions led him to try. Roland on the other hand was quite dull. He was the muscle, clearly, and the vessel he appointed himself was spot on there. All stocky build and squared jaw, he looked the very part of a brawler. Word was he had sold his soul for winning a title of some sort, and Grainne believed he would have done well with bare knuckle boxing.

They sat in a window of three separate buildings, cell phones charging on an end table beside each of them. They had triangulated their positions around one town home on an otherwise nondescript street. Grainne was occupying the meat suit of some heroin junkie who did not leave her flat for days on end, so she knew no one would miss the girl. Roland and Damian had each taken men just as likely to be passed over by anyone of consequence as well. They each had eyes on different sides of the townhouse, just in case any of the inhabitants (all demons) decided to move. For three days, Grainne had sat in that window watching the movements of the lesser demons smartly going through mundane tasks, trying to keep some semblance of the humans' lives they were holding onto. Yet she had not seen the one she wanted to see, and that was Gambian. He squatted inside like a toad, for she could sense his presence as surely as he could feel the three of them, like grim shadows on his periphery. His energy was quite darker than the others, and he was older. He was nearly as old as Damian, but that did not worry her. He was old, and did know a few tricks, but not as many as she. Nor was he near as cunning as her King.

Before her thoughts strayed to Crowley, Grainne saw the front door open and a flinty looking man step out. She quickly grabbed her phone and texted the other two to meet her at a corner, as she watched Gambian's earthly form climb into the back of a taxi. _Looks like this reconnaissance mission is taking a ride_, she thought. She ported quickly to the corner where they had a car, and pointed out the taxi as it turned left onto a main road. They followed far enough behind the cab that they could see it, yet not so close that their presence could be felt.

When the taxi pulled up to the curb in front of a church, they pulled over as well and watched as Gambian climbed the steps into the chapel and dipped inside.

"You're joking," Roland said aloud.

"Well according to the great Google, his meat suit is a deacon," Damian said drily.

Grainne stifled an unladylike snort and slipped out of the car. She increased her pace just enough to pass a lady walking by, bumping the woman slightly as she passed. Grainne mumbled an apology and rushed on around the corner as the lady turned to go up the steps to the church. A moment later, Grainne popped back into the car.

"What was that about?" Roland asked turning to look at her in the back seat.

"I slipped a tracking disc onto that woman."

"What for?" he asked perplexed.

"Wait for it," Grainne said repressively, then she started murmuring in Latin and the boys caught on.

"Grainne, I like your style," Damian said with an amused grin.

Inside the church, the lady sidled down the aisle to Gambian and held out a hand for him to shake. "Deacon, I don't know why, but I've felt a powerful need to pray for you lately." As she said this, her other hand dropped the tracking disc into his pocket while he thanked the lady for her kind words. Without knowing how or why she was compelled, the lady moved back to her usual pew and settled in for the sermon.

"There we are fellas," Grainne said in the car. "No matter where he goes now, we can track him. And so can the dogs. We'll see if he takes us to the Winchester before he finds that disc."

* * *

Meanwhile, back at Crowley's estate, Blanchard had dug up quite some interesting morsels on the little vixen. Crowley sat back, scotch in hand and smiled as he mused over his new knowledge of this girl. She was even older than himself, and a fine addition she would have been had she gone into sales as he had. But alas, she was twisted from the beginning it seemed—though apparently loyal nearly to a fault—the girl had been a pirate. Grainne O'Malley. So she'd kept her own name. It suited her, too. "Grace" in Gaelic, no less. His own native tongue. Her lilt had long since gone, but she stayed true to character. Stalwart, intelligent, cagey, and yet just as likely to jump into the fray as any of his black-eyed boys. Yes, here may be the alliance he was looking for, he thought. Must have her for dinner at some point and pick her brain, he thought. Knowing how steely her resolve must be and how downright scandalous some of her methods could be, he wondered how exactly she was getting on with dear old Gambian.


End file.
